WALT   WHITMAN  (p.  5103. 


WALT    WHITMAN. 


AN  ADDRESS 


BY 


ROBERTO.  INGERSOLL 


LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE. 


Delivered  in  Philadelphia,   Oct.  21,   1890.     Al«o  Funeral  Ad 

dress  Delivered  at  Harleigb,  Camden,  N.  J., 

March  30,  1892. 


WITH    PORTRAIT  OF  WHITMAN. 

AUTHORIZED    EDITION. 


NEW  YORK; 

THE  TRUTH  SEEKER  COMPANY, 
28  LAFAYETTK  PLACE. 


Copyrighted,  1890, 

BY 
THE  TRUTH  SEEKER  COMPANY. 


TESTIMONIAL 

TO 

WALT     WHITMAN. 


OF  all  the  placid  hours  in  his  peaceful  life, 
those  that  Walt  Whitman  spent  on  the  stage  of 
Horticultural  Hall  last  night  must  have  been 
among  the  most  gratifying,  says  the  Philadel- 
phia Press  of  October  22,  1890.  To  a  testi- 
monial, intended  to  cheer  his  declining  years, 
not  only  in  a  complimentary  sense,  came  some 
eighteen  hundred  or  more  people  to  listen  to 
a  tribute  to  the  aged  poet  by  Col.  Robert  G. 
Ingersoll,  such  as  seldom  falls  to  the  lot  of 
living  man  to  hear  about  himself. 

On  the  stage  sat  many  admirers  of  the  vener- 
able torch-bearer  of  modern  poetic  thought,  as 


4;  LIBERTY  IIST  MTERATURE. 

Colonel  Ingersoli  described  him,  young  and  old, 
men  and  women.  There  were  white  beards, 
but  none  were  so  white  as  that  of  the  author  of 
"  Leaves  of  Grass."  He  sat  calm  and  sedate  in 
his  easy  wheeled  chair,  with  his  usual  garb  of 
gray,  with  his  cloudy  white  hair  falling  over 
his  white,  turned-down  collar  that  must  have 
been  three  inches  wide.  No  burst  of  eloquence 
from  the  orator's  lips  disturbed  that  equanim- 
ity ;•  no  tribute  of  applause  moved  him  from  his 
habitual  calm. 

And  when  the  lecturer,  having  concluded, 
said,  "We  have  met  to-night  to  honor  our- 
selves by  honoring  the  author  of  'Leaves  of 
Grass,' "  and  the  audience  started  to  leave  the 
hall,  the  man  they  had  honored  reached  for- 
ward with  his  cane  and  attracted  Colonel  Inger- 
soll's  attention. 

"  Do  not  leave  yet,"  said  Colonel  Ingersoli, 
"  Mr.  Whitman  has  a  word  to  say." 
1      This  is  what  he  said,  and  no  more  character- 
'  istic   thing   ever   fell   from    the   poet's   lips  or 
flowed  from  his  pen  ; 


TESTIMONIAL   TO  WALT   WHITMAN.  5 

"After  all,  my  friends,  the  main  factors 
being  the  curious  testimony  called  personal 
presence  and  face  to  face  meeting,  I  have 
come  here  to  be  among  you  and  show  myself, 
and  thank  you  with  my  living  voice  for  coming, 
and  Robert  Ingersoil  for  speaking.  And  so 
with  such  brief  testimony  of  showing  myself, 
and  such  good  will  and  gratitude,  I  bid  you 
hail  and  farewell."  . 


TESTIMONIAL  TO  WALT  WHITMAN. 


THE    ADDRESS. 


Let  us  Put  Wreaths  on  the  Brows  of  the  Living. 


I. 

IN  the  year  1855  the  American  people  knew 
but  little  of  books.  Their  ideals,'  their  models, 
were  English.  Young  and  Pollok,  Addison  and 
Watts  were  regarded  as  great  poets.  Some  of 
the  more  reckless  read  Thomson's  "Seasons" 
and  the  poems  and  novels  of  Sir  Walter  Scott. 
A  few,  not  quite  orthodox,  delighted  in  the 
mechanical  monotony  of  Pope,  and  the  really 
wicked — those  lost  to  all  religious  shame — were 
worshipers  of  Shakespeare.  The  really  ortho- 
dox Protestant,  untroubled  by  doubts,  consid- 
ered Milton  the  greatest  poet  of  them  all. 
Byron  and  Shelley  were  hardly  respectable — not 
to  be  read  by  young  persons.  It  was  admitted 


k  LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE. 

on  all  hands  that  Burns  was  a  child  of  nature 
of  whom  his  mother  was  ashamed  and  proud. 

In  the  blessed  year  aforesaid,  candor,  free 
and  sincere  speech,  were  under  the  ban. 
Creeds  at  that  time  were  entrenched  behind 
statutes,  prejudice,  custom,  ignorance,  stupid- 
ity, Puritanism  and  slavery ;  that  is  to  say, 
slavery  of  mind  and  body. 

Of  course  it  always  has  been,  and  forever  will 
be,  impossible  for  slavery,  or  any  kind  or  form 
of  injustice,  to  produce  a  great  poet.  There  are 
hundreds  of  verse  makers  and  writers  on  the 
side  of  wrong — enemies  of  progress — but  they 
are  not  poets,  they  are  not  men  of  genius. 

At  this  time  a  young  man — he  to  whom  this 
testimonial  is  given — he  upon  whose  head  have 
fallen  the  snows  of  more  than  seventy  winters 
— this  man,  born  within  the  sound  of  the  sea, 
gave  to  the  world  a  book,  "Leaves  of  Grass." 
This  book  was,  and  is,  the  true  transcript  of  a 
soul.  The  man  is  unmasked.  No  drapery  of 
hypocrisy,  no  pretense,  no  fear.  The  book  was 
as  original  in  form  as  in  thought.  All  customs 


TESTIMONIAL  TO  WALT  WHITMAN.  9 

were  forgotten  or  disregarded,  all  rules  broken 
— nothing  mechanical — no  imitation — sponta- 
neous, running  and  winding  like  a  river,  multi- 
tudinous in  its  thoughts  as  the  waves  of  the 
sea — nothing  mathematical  or  measured.  In 
everything  a  touch  of  chaos — lacking  what  is 
called  form  as  clouds  lack  form,  but  not  lack- 
ing the  splendor  of  sunrise  or  the  glory  of  sun- 
set. It  was  a  marvelous  collection  and  aggre- 
gation of  fragments,  hints,  suggestions,  memo- 
ries, and  prophecies,  weeds  and  flowers,  clouds 
aijd  clods,  sights  and  sounds,  emotions  and 
passions,  waves,  shadows  and  constellations. 

His  book  was  received  by  many  with  disdain, 
with  horror,  with  indignation  and  protest — by 
the  few  as  a  marvelous,  almost  miraculous, 
message  to  the  world  -  full  of  thought,  philos- 
ophy, poetry  and  music. 

In  the  republic  of  mediocrity  genius  is 
dangerous.  A  great  soul  appears  and  fills  the 
world  with  new  and  marvelous  harmonies.  In 
his  words  is  the  old  Promethean  flame.  The 
heart  of  nature  beats  and  throbs  in  his  line. 


10  LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE. 

The  respectable  prudes  and  pedagogues  sound 
the  alarm,  and  cry,  or  rather  screech :  "  Is  this 
a  book  for  a  young  person?" 

A  poem  true  to  life  as  a  Greek  statue — candid 
as  nature — fills  these  barren  souls  with  fear. 

They  forget  that  drapery  about  the  perfect 
was  suggested  by  immodesty. 

The  provincial  prudes,  and  others  of  like 
mold,  pretend  that  love  is  a  duty  rather  than  a 
passion — a  kind  of  self-denial — not  an  over- 
mastering joy.  They  preach  the  gospel  of  pre- 
tense and  pantalettes.  In  the  presence  of  sin- 
cerity, of  truth,  they  cast  down  their  eyes  and 
endeavor  to  feel  immodest*.  To  them,  the  most 
beautiful  thing  is  hypocrisy  adorned  with  a 
blush. 

They  have  no  idea  of  an  honest,  pure  passion, 
glorying  in  its  strength — intense,  intoxicated 
with  the  beautiful,  giving  even  to  inanimate 
things  pulse  and  motion,  and  that  transfigures, 
ennobles,  and  idealizes  the  object  of  its  adora- 
tion. 

They  do  not  walk  the  streets  of  the  city  of 


TESTIMONIAL  TO  WALT  WHITMAN.  H 

life — they  explore  the  sewers ;  they  stand  in 
the  gutters  and  cry  "  Unclean !"  They  pretend 
that  beauty  is  a  snare  ;  that  love  is  a  Delilah ; 
that  the  highway  of  joy  is  the  broad  road,  lined 
with  flowers  and  filled  with  perfume,  leading  to 
the  city  of  eternal  sorrow. 

Since  the  year  1855  the  American  people 
have  developed  ;  they  are  somewhat  acquainted 
with  the  literature  of  the  world.  They  have 
witnessed  the  most  tremendous  of  revolutions, 
not  only  upon  the  fields  of  battle,  but  in  the 
world  of  thought.  The  American  citizen  has 
concluded  that  it  is  hardly  worth  while  being  a 
sovereign  unless  he  has  the  right  to  think  for 
himself. 

And  now,  from  this  hight,  with  the  vantage- 
ground  of  to-day,  I  propose  to  examine  this 
book  and  to  state,  in  a  general  way,  what  Walt 
Whitman  has  d«ne,  what  he  has  accomplished, 
and  the  place  he  has  won  in  the  world  of 
thought. 


12  LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE. 


II. 

THE    EELIGION  OF  THE  BODY. 

Walt  Whitman  stood,  when  he  published  his 
book,  where  all  stand  to-night — on  the  perpet- 
ually moving  line  where  history  ends  and 
prophecy  begins.  He  was  full  of  life  to  the 
very  tips  of  his  fingers — brave,  eager,  candid, 
pyous  with  health.  He  was  acquainted  with 
the  past.  He  knew  something  of  song  and 
story,  of  philosophy  and  art — much  of  the 
heroic  dead,  of  brave  suffering,  of  the  thoughts 
of  men,  the  habits  of  the  people — rich  as  well 
as  poor — familiar  with  labor,  a  friend  of  wind 
and  wave,  touched  by  love  and  friendship- 
liking  the  open  road,  enjoying  the  fields  and 
paths,  the  crags — friend  of  the  forest — feeling 
that  he  was  free — neither  master  nor  slave — 
willing  that  all  should  know  his  thoughts — 
open  as  the  sky,  candid  as  nature — and  he  gave 


TESTIMONIAL  TO  WALT   WHITMAN.  13 

his  thoughts,  his  dreams,  his  conclusions,  his 
hopes,  and  his  mental  portrait  to  his  fellow- 
men. 

Walt  Whitman  announced  the  gospel  of  the 
body.  He  confronted  the  people.  He  denied 
the  depravity  of  man.  He  insisted  that  love  is 
not  a  crime ;  that  men  and  women  should  be 
proudly  natural ;  that  they  need  not  grovel  on 
the  earth  and  cover  their  faces  for  shame.  He 
taught  the  dignity  and  glory  of  the  father  and 
mother ;  the  sacredness  of  maternity. 

Maternity,  tender  and  pure  as  the  tear  of 
pity,  holy  as  suffering — the  crown,  the  flower, 
the  ecstasy  of  love. 

People  had  been  taught  from  bibles  and  from 
creeds  that  maternity  was  a  kind  of  crime  ;  that 
the  woman  should  be  purified  by  some  cere- 
mony in  some  temple  built  in  honor  of  some 
god.  This  barbarism  was  attacked  in  "  Leaves 
of  Grass." 

The  glory  of  simple  life  was  sung ;  a  declara- 
tion of  independence  was  made  for  each 
and  alL 


14  LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE. 

And  yet  this  appeal  to  manhood  and  to 
womanhood  was  misunderstood.  It  was  de- 
nounced simply  because  it  was  in  harmony 
with  the  great  trend  of  nature.  To  me,  the 
most  obscene  word  in  our  language  is  celibacy. 

It  was  not  the  fashion  for  people  to  speak  or 
write  their  thoughts.  We  were  flooded  with 
the  literature  of  hypocrisy.  The  writers  did 
not  faithfully  describe  the  worlds  in  which 
they  lived.  They  endeavored  to  make  a  fash- 
ionable world.  They  pretended  that  the  cot- 
tage or  the  hut  in  which  they  dwelt  was  a 
palace,  and  they  called  the  little  area  in  which 
they  threw  their  slops  their  domain,  their 
realm,  their  empire.  They  were  ashamed  of 
the  real,  of  what  their  world  actually  was. 
They  imitated  ;  that  is  to  say,  they  told  lies, 
and  these  lies  filled  the  literature  of  most 
lands. 

Walt  Whitman  defended  the  sacredness  of 
love,  the  purity  of  passion — the  passion  that 
builds  every  home  and  fills  the  world  with  art 
and  song. 


TESTIMONIAL  TO  WALT  WHITMAN.  15 

They  cried  out :  "  He  is  a  defender  of  pas- 
sion— he  is  a  libertine  !  He  lives  in  the  mire. 
He  lacks  spirituality !" 

Whoever  differs  with  the  multitude,  especially 
with  a  led  multitude — that  is  to  say,  with  a 
multitude  of  taggers — will  find  out  from  their 
leaders  that  he  has  committed  an  unpardonable 
sin.  It  is  a  crime  to  travel  a  road  of  your  own, 
especially  if  you  put  up  guide-boards  for  the 
information  of  others. 

Many,  many  centuries  ago  Epicurus,  the 
greatest  man  of  his  century,  and  of  many  centu- 
ries before  and  after,  said  :  "  Happiness  is  the 
only  good ;  happiness  is  the  supreme  end." 
This  man  was  temperate,  frugal,  generous, 
noble — and  yet  through  all  these  years  he  has 
been  denounced  by  the  hypocrites  of  the  world 
as  a  mere  eater  and  drinker. 

It  was  said  that  Whitman  had  exaggerated 
the  importance  of  love — that  he  had  made  too 
much  of  this  passion.  Lat  me  say  that  no  poet 
• — not  excepting  Shakespeare — has  had  imagi- 
nation enough  to  exaggerate  the  importance  of 


16  LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE. 

human  love — a  passion  that  contains  all  hights 
and  all  depths — ample  as  space,  with  a  sky  in 
which  glitter  all  constellations,  and  that  has 
within  it  all  storms,  all  lightnings,  all  wrecks 
and  ruins,  all  griefs,  all  sorrows,  all  shadows, 
and  all  the  joy  and  sunshine  of  which  the  heart 
and  brain  are  capable. 

No  writer  must  be  measured  by  a  wrord  or 
paragraph.  He  is  to  be  measured  by  his  work 
— by  the  tendency,  not  of  one  line,  but  by  the 
tendency  of  all. 

Which  way  does  the  great  stream  tend?  Is 
it  for  good  or  evil  ?  Are  the  motives  high  and 
noble,  or  low  and  infamous  ? 

"We  cannot  measure  Shakespeare  by  a  few 
lines,  neither  can  we  measure  the  Bible  by  a 
few  chapters,  nor  "  Leaves  of  Grass  "  by  a  few 
paragraphs.  In  each  there  are  many  things 
that  I  neither  approve  nor  believe — :but  in  all 
books  you  will  find  a  mingling  of  wisdom  and 
foolishness,  of  prophecies  and  mistakes — in 
other  words,  among  the  excellencies  there  will 
be  defects.  The  mine  is  not  all  gold,  or  all 


TESTIMONIAL  TO  WALT  WHITMAN.  17 

silver,  or  all  diamonds — there  are  baser  metals. 
The  trees  of  the  forest  are  not  all  of  one  size. 
On  some  of  the  highest  there  are  dead  and 
useless  limbs,  and  there  may  be  growing  be- 
neath the  bushes,  weeds,  and  now  and  then  a 
poisonous  vine. 

If  I  were  to  edit  the  great  books  of  the 
world,  I  might  leave  out  some  lines  and  I  might 
leave  out  the  best.  I  have  no  right  to  make 
of  my  brain  a  sieve  and  say  that  only  that 
which  passes  through  belongs  to  the  rest  of 
the  human  race.  I  claim  the  right  to  choose. 
I  give  that  right  to  all. 

Walt  Whitman  had  the  courage  to  express 
his  thought — the  candor  to  tell  the  truth. 
And  here  let  me  say  it  gives  me  joy — a  kind 
of  perfect  satisfaction — to  look  above  the  big- 
oted bats,  the  satisfied  owls  and  wrens  and 
chickadees,  and  see  the  great  eagle  poised,  cir- 
cling higher  and  higher,  unconscious  of  their 
existence.  And  it  gives  me  joy,  a  kind  of  per- 
fect satisfaction,  to  look  above  the  petty  pas- 
sions and  jealousies  of  small  and  respectable 


18  LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE. 

people — above  the  considerations  of  place  and 
power  and  reputation,  and  see  a  brave,  intrepid 
man. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  the  American 
people  had  separated  from  the  Old  World — 
that  we  had  declared  not  only  the  independ- 
ence of  colonies,  but  the  independence  of  the 
individual.  We  had  done  more — we  had  de- 
clared that  the  state  could  no  longer  be  ruled 
by  the  Church,  and  that  the  Church  could  not 
be  ruled  by  the  state,  and  that  the  individual 
could  not  be  ruled  by  the  Church.  These  dec- 
larations were  in  danger  of  being  forgotten. 
We  needed  a  new  voice,  sonorous,  loud  and 
clear,  a  new  poet  for  America  for  the  new  epoch, 
somebody  to  chant  the  morning  song  of  the 
new  day. 

The  great  man  who  gives  a  true  transcript  of 
his  mind,  fascinates  and  instructs.  Most  writers 
suppress  individuality.  They  wish  to  please 
the  public.  They  flatter  the  stupid  and  pander 
to  the  prejudice  of  their  readers.  They  write 
for  the  market — making  books  as  other  me- 


TESTIMONIAL  TO  WALT  WHITMAN.  19 

chanics  make  shoes.  They  have  no  message — 
they  bear  no  torch — they  are  simply  the  slaves 
of  customers.  The  books  they  manufacture  are 
handled  by  "  the  trade ;"  they  are  regarded  as 
harmless.  The  pulpit  does  not  object;  the 
young  person  can  read  the  monotonous  pages 
without  a  blush — or  a  thought.  On  the  title 
pages  of  these  books  you  will  find  the  imprint 
of  the  great  publishers — on  the  rest  of  the 
pages,  nothing.  These  books  might  be  pre- 
scribed for  insomnia. 


20  LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE. 


III. 

Men  of  talent,  men  of  business,  touch  life 
upon  few  sides.  They  travel  but  the  beaten 
path.  The  creative  spirit  is  not  in  them.  They 
regard  with  suspicion  a  poet  who  touches  life 
on  every  side.  They  have  little  confidence  in 
that  divine  tiling  called  sympathy,  and  they  do 
not  and  cannot  understand  the  man  who  enters 
into  the  hopes,  the  aims,  and  the  feelings  of  all 
others. 

In  all  genius  there  is  the  touch  of  chaos — a 
little  of  the  vagabond ;  and  the  successful 
tradesman,  the  man  who  buys  and  sells,  or 
manages  a  bank,  does  not  care  to  deal  with  a 
person  who  has  only  poems  for  collaterals — 
they  have  a  little  fear  of  such  people,  and  re- 
gard them  as  the  awkward  countryman  does  a 
sleight-of-hand  performer. 

In  every  age  in  which  books  have  been  pro- 


TESTIMOX  AL  TO  WALT  WHITMAN.  21 

cluced  the  governing  class,  the  respectable,  have 
been  opposed  to  the  works  of  real  genius.  If 
what  are  known  as  the  best  people  could  have 
had  their  way,  if  the  pulpit  had  been  consulted — 
the  provincial  moralists — the  works  of  Shake- 
speare would  have  been  suppressed.  Not  a  line 
would  have  reached  our  time.  And  the  same 
may  be  said  of  every  dramatist  of  his  age. 

If  the  Scotch  Kirk  could  have  decided,  noth- 
ing would  have  been  known  of  Robert  Burns. 
If  the  good  people,  the  orthodox,  could  have 
had  their  say,  not  one  line  of  Voltaire  would 
now  be  known.  All  the  plates  of  the  French 
Encyclopedia  would  have  been  destroyed  with 
the  thousands  that  were  destroyed.  Nothing 
would  have  been  known  of  D'Alembert,  Grimm, 
Diderot,  or  any  of  the  Titans  who  warred 
against  the  thrones  and  altars  and  laid  the 
foundation  of  modern  literature  not  only,  but 
what  is  of  far  greater  moment,  universal  educa- 
tion. 

It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  every  book 
now  held  in  high  esteem  would  have  been  de- 


22  LIBERTY  ix  LITERATURE. 

stroyed,  if  those  in  authority  could  have  had 
their  will.  Every  book  of  modern  times,  that 
has  a  real  value,  that  has  enlarged  the  intel- 
lectual horizon  of  mankind,  that  has  developed 
the  brain,  that  has  furnished  real  food  for 
thought,  can  be  found  in  the  Index  Expurgato- 
rius  of  the  Papacy,  and  nearly  every  one  has 
been  commended  to  the  fi^ee  minds  of  men  by 
the  denunciations  of  Protestants. 

If  the  guardians  of  society,  the  protectors  of 
"young  persons,"  could  have  had  their  way, 
we  should  have  known  nothing  of  Byron  or 
Shelley.  The  voices  that  thrill  the  world 
would  now  be  silent.  If  authority  could  have 
had  its  way,  the  world  would  have  been  as 
ignorant  now  as  it  was  when  our  ancestors 
lived  in  holes  or  hung  from  dead  limbs  by  their 
prehensile  tails. 

But  we  are  not  forced  to  go  very  far  back. 
If  Shakespeare  had  been  published  for  the  first 
time  now,  those  divine  plays — greater  than  con- 
tinents and  seas,  greater  even  than  the  constel- 
lations of  the  midnight  sky — would  be  excluded 


TESTIMONIAL  TO  WALT  WHITMAN.  23 

from  the  mails  by  the  decision  of  the  present 
enlightened  postmaster-general. 

The  poets  have  always  lived  in  an  ideal 
world,  and  that  ideal  world  has  always  been  far 
better  than  the  real  world.  As  a  consequence, 
they  have  forever  roused,  not  simply  the  imag- 
ination, but  the  energies — the  enthusiasm  of 
the  human  race. 

The  great  poets  have  been  on  the  side  of  the 
oppressed — of  the  downtrodden.  They  have 
suffered  with  the  imprisoned  and  the  enslaved, 
and  whenever  and  wherever  man  has  suffered 
for  the  right,  wherever  the  hero  has  been 
stricken  down — whether  on  field  or  scaffold — 
some  man  of  genius  has  walked  by  his  side, 
and  some  poet  has  given  form  and  expression, 
not  simply  to  his  deeds,  but  to  his  aspirations. 

From  the  Greek  and  Roman  world  we  still 
hear  the  voices  of  a  few.  The  poets,  the  phi- 
losophers, the  artists  and  the  orators  still 
speak.  Countless  millions  have  been  covered 
by  the  waves  of  oblivion,  but  the  few  who 
uttered  the  elemental  truths,  who  had  sym- 


24  LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE. 

pathy  for  the  whole  human  race,  and  who  were 
great  enough  to  prophesy  a  grander  day,  are  as 
alive  to-night  as  when  they  roused,  by  their 
bodily  presence,  by  their  living  voices,  by  their 
works  of  art,  the  enthusiasm  of  their  fellow 
men. 

Think  of  the  respectable  people,  of  the  men 
of  wealth  and  position,  those  who  dwelt  in  man- 
sions, children  of  success,  who  went  down  to 
the  grave  voiceless,  and  whose  names  we  do  not 
know.  Think  of  the  vast  multitudes,  the  end- 
less processions,  that  entered  the  caverns  of 
eternal  night — leaving  no  thought — no  truth  as 
a  legacy  to  mankind  ! 

The  great  poets  have  sympathized  with  the 
people.  They  have  uttered  in  all  ages  the 
human  cry.  Unbought  by  gold,  unawed  by 
power,  they  have  lifted  high  the  torch  that 
illuminates  the  world. 


TKSTIMONIAL  TO  WALT  WHtTMAN.  25 


IV. 

Walt  Whitman  is  in  the  highest  sense  a  be- 
liever in  democracy.  He  knows  that  there  is 
but  one  excuse  for  government — the  preserva- 
tion of  liberty ;  to  the  end  that  man  may  be 
happy.  He  knows  that  there  is  but  one  excuse 
for  any  institution,  secular  and  religious — the 
preservation  of  liberty ;  and  that  there  is  but 
one  excuse  for  schools,  for  universal  education, 
for  the  ascertainment  of  facts,  namely,  the  pres- 
ervation of  liber ty.  He  resents  the  arrogance 
and  cruelty  of  power.  He  has  sworn  never  to 
be  tyrant  or  slave.  He  has  solemnly  declared  : 

I  speak  the  pass-word   primeval,  I  give  the  sign  of  democracy,    '  \ 
By  God!     I  will   accept   nothing  which   all   cannot  have  their 
counterpart  of  on  the  same  terms. 

This  one  declaration  covers  the  entire  ground. 
It  is  a  declaration  of  independence,  and  it  is 


26  LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE. 

also  a  declaration  of  justice,  that  is  to  say,  a 
declaration  of  the  independence  of  the  individ- 
ual, and  a  declaration  that  all  shall  be  free. 
The  man  who  has  this  spirit  can  truthfully  say : 

I  have  taken  off  ray  hat  to  nothing  known  or  unknown. 
I  am  for  those  that   have  never  been  master'd. 

There  is  in  Whitman  what  he  calls  "  The 
boundless  impatience  of  restraint" — together 
with  that  sense  of  justice  which  compelled  him 
to  say,  "Neither  a  servant  nor  a  master  am  I." 

He  was  wise  enough  to  know  that  giving 
others  the  same  rights  that  he  claims  for  him- 
self could  not  harm  him,  and  he  was  great 
enough  to  say :  "  As  if  it  were  not  indispensa- 
ble to  my  own  rights  that  others  possess  the 
same." 

He  felt  as  all  should  feel,  that  the  liberty  of 
no  man  is  safe  unless  the  liberty  of  each  is  safe. 

There  is  in  our  country  a  little  of  the  old  ser- 
vile spirit,  a  little  of  the  bowing  and  cringing 
to  others.  Many  Americans  do  not  understand 
that  the  officers  of  the  government  are  simply 


TESTIMONIAL  TO  WALT  WHITMAN.  27 

the  servants  of  the  people.  Nothing  is  so  de- 
moralizing as  the  worship  of  place.  Whitman 
has  reminded  the  people  of  this  country  that 
they  are  supreme,  and  he  has  said  to  them  : 

The  President  is  there  in  the  White  House  for  you,    it   is  not 

you  who  are  here  for  him, 
The  Secretaries  act  in  their  bureaus  for  you,    not  you  here  for 

them. 

Doctrines,  politics  and  civilization  exurge  from  you, 
Sculpture  and   monuments  and   any  thing  inscribed   anywhere 

are  tallied  in  you. 

He  describes  the  ideal  American  citizen — the 
one  who 

Says    indifferently  and   alike    u  How  are   you,  friend  ?"  to    the 

President  at  his  levee, 
And   he   says  "Go.>d-day,  my  brother,"  to  Cudge  that  hoes   in 

the  sugar- field. 

Long  ago,  when  the  politicians  were  wrong, 
when  the  judges  were  subservient,  when  the 
pulpit  was  a  coward,  Walt  Whitman  shouted  : 

Man  shall  not  hold  property  in  man. 

The  least  develop'd  pors  >n  on  earth  is  just  as  important  and 
sacred  to  himself  or  herself  as  the  most  develop'd  per- 
son is  to  himself  or  herself. 


28  LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE. 

This  is  the  very  soul  of  true  democracy. 

Beauty  is  not  all  there  is  of  poetry.  It  must 
contain  the  truth.  It  is  not  simply  an  oak, 
rude  and  grand,  neither  is  it  simply  a  vine.  It 
is  both.  Around  the  oak  of  truth  runs  the  vine 
of  beauty. 

Walt  Whitman  utters  the  elemental  truths 
and  is  the  poet  of  democracy.  He  is  also  the 
poet  of  individuality. 


TESTIMONIAL  TO  WALT   WHITMAN.  29 


v-  i 

INDIVIDUALITY. 

In  order  to  protect  the  liberties  of  a  nation, 
we  must  protect  the  individual.  A  democracy 
is  a  nation  of  free  individuals.  The  individuals 
are  not  to  be  sacrificed  to  the  nation.  The  na- 
tion exists  only  for  the  purpose  of  guarding 
and  protecting  the  individuality  of  men  and 
women.  Walt  Whitman  has  told  us  that : 
"  The  whole  theory  of  the  universe  is  directed 
unerringly  to  one  single  individual — namely  to 
You." 

And  he  has  also  told  us  that  the  greatest 
city — the  greatest  nation — is  "  where  the  citizen 
is  always  the  head  and  ideal." 

And  that 

A  great  city  is  that  which   has  the  greatest  men  and  women, 
If  it  be  a  few   ragged    huta   it  13  still  the   greatest    city  in 
the  whole  world, 


30  LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE. 

By  this  test  maybe  the  greatest  city  on  the 
continent  to-night  is  Camden. 

This  poet  has  asked  of  us  this  question : 

What  do  you   suppose  will   satisfy   the   soul,  except   to    walk 
free  and  own  no  superior  ? 

The  man  who  asks  this  question  has  left  no 
impress  of  his  lips  in  the  dust,  and  has  no  dirt 
upon  his  knees. 

He  was  great  enough  to  say  : 

The  soul  has  that   measureless  pride  which  revolts  from  every 
lesson   but  its  own. 

He  carries  the  idea  of  individuality  to  its 
utmost  hight : 

What  do  you   suppose  I   would  intimate    to    you    in   a   hu'n^ 
dred  ways,  but  that  man  or  woman  is  as  good  as  God? 
And  that  there  is  no  God  any  more  divine  than  Yourself? 

Glorying  in  individuality,  in  the  freedom  of 
the  soul,  he  cries  out : 

0  to  struggle  against  great  odds,  to  meet  enemies  undaunted! 
To   be    entirely    alone    with    them,    to    find    how    much   one 

can  stand  1 
To    look    strife,  torture,   prison,  popular  odium,  face   to  face  I 


TESTIMONIAL  TO  WALT  WHITMAN.  31 

To   mount    tho    scaffold,    to   advance   to  the  muzzles  of  guns 

with  perf(  i-t  nonchalance  I 
To  be  indeed  a  God! 

And   again  ; 

0  the  joy  of  a  manly  self-hood  1 

To   be  servile    to  none,  to  defer    to  none,   not  to  any  tyrant 

known  or  unknown, 

To  walk  with  erect  carriage,  a  step  springy  and  elastic, 
To  look  with  calm  gaze  or  with  a  flashing  eye, 
To  speak  with  full   and   sonorous  voice  out  of  a   broad  chest, 
To  confront  with  your  personality  all  the  other  personalities  of 

the  earth. 

Walt  Whitman  is  willing  to  stand  alone.  He 
is  sufficient  unto  himself,  and  he  says : 

Henceforth  I  ask  not  good-fortune,  I  myself  am  good-fortune. 
Strong  and  content  I  travel  the  open  road. 

He   is   one  of 

Those  that  look  carelessly  in  the  faces  of  Presidents  and  Gov- 
ernors, as  to  say  "Who  are  you?" 

And  not  only  this,  but  he  has  the  courage 
to  say  :  "  Nothing,  not  God,  is  greater  to  one 
than  one's  self." 


32  LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE. 

Walt  Whitman  is  the  poet  of  Individuality 
—  the  defender  of  the  rights  of  each  for  the 
sake  of  all — and  his  sympathies  are  as  wide 
as  the  world.  He  is  the  defender  of  the 
whole  race. 


TESTIMONIAL  TO  WALT   WHITMAN.  33 


VI. 
HUMANITY. 

The  great  poet  is  intensely  human — infi- 
nitely sympathetic — entering  into  the  joys  and 
griefs  of  others,  bearing  their  burdens,  know- 
ing their  sorrows.  Brain  without  heart  is  not 
much ;  they  must  act  together.  When  the 
respectable  people  of  the  North,  the  rich,  the 
successful,  were  willing  to  carry  out  the  Fu- 
gitive Slave  law,  Walt  Whitman  said : 

I  am  the  hounded  slave,  I  wince  at  the  bite  of  the  dogs, 
Hell   and   despair    are   upon   me,   crack    and  again   crack   the 

marksmen, 
I  clutch    the    rails  of  the  fence,  my  gore  dribs,  thinn'd  with 

the  ooze  of  my  skin, 
I  fall  on  the  weeds  and  stones, 
The  riders  spur  their  unwilling  horses,   haul  close, 
Taunt    my  dizzy  ears,  and    beat    me  violently  over    the   head 

with  whip-stocks. 


34  LIBERTY  IX  LITERATURE. 

Agonies  are  one  of  my  changes  of  garments, 
I  do  not  ask   the    wounded    person  -how   lie   feels,   I    myself 
become  the  wounded  person.     .     .    . 

I    ...     see  myself  in  prison  shaped  like  another  man, 
And  feel  the  dull  uninterrnitted  pain. 

For  me  the  keepers  of   convicts   shoulder  their   carbines   and 

keep  watch, 
It  is  I  let  out  in  the  morning  and  barr'd  at  night 

Not  a  mutineer  walks  handcuffd   to  jail  but  I    am   handcuff'd 
to  him  and  walk  by  his  side. 

Judge  not  as  the  judge  judges,  but  as  the  sun  falling   upon   a 
helpless   thing. 

Of  the  very  worst  he  had  the  infinite  tender- 
*ness  to  say :  "  Not  until  the  sun  excludes  you 
will  I  exclude  you." 

In  this  age  of  greed  when  houses  and 
lands,  and  stocks  and  bonds,  outrank  human 
life ;  when  gold  is  more  of  value  than  blood, 
these  words  should  be  read  by  all : 

When   the   psalm   sings   instead  of  the   singer, 
When  the   script  preaches  instead  of  the  preacher, 


TESTIMONIAL  TO  WALT  WHITMAN.  35 

When  the  pulpit  descends  and  goes  instead  of  the  carver  that 
carved  the  supporting  desk. 

When  I  can  touch  the  body  of  books  by  night  or  day,  and 
when  they  touch  my  body  back  again, 

When  a  university  course  convinces  like  a  slumbering  woman 
and  child  convince, 

When  the  minted  gold  in  the  vault  smiles  like  the  night- 
watchman's  daughter, 

When  warrantee  deeds  loafe  .  in  chairs  opposite  and  are  my 
friendly  companions, 

1  intend  to  reach  them  my  hand,  and  make  as  much  of  them 
as  I  do  of  men  and  women  like  you. 


36  LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE. 


VII. 

The  poet  is  also  a  painter,  a  sculptor — lie, 
too,  deals  in  form  and  color.  The  great  poet 
is  of  necessity  a  great  artist.  With  a  few 
words  he  creates  pictures,  filling  his  canvas 
with  living  men  and  women — with  those  who 
feel  and  speak.  Have  you  ever  read  the  ac- 
count of  the  stage-driver's  funeral?  Let  me 
read  it : 

Cold  dash  of  waves  at  the  ferry-wharf,  posh  and  ice  in  the 
river,  half-frozen  mud  in  the  streets, 

A  gray  discouraged  sky  overhead,  the  short  last  daylight  of 
December, 

A  hearse  and  stages,  the  funeral  of  an  old  Broadway  stage- 
driver,  the  cortege  mostly  drivers. 

Steady  the  trot    to  the  cemetery,  duly  rattles  the  death-bell, 
The  gate  is   pass'd,  the  new-dug  grave  is  halted  at,  the  liv- 
ing alight,  the   hearse  uncloses, 


TESTIMONIAL  TO  WALT  WHITMAN.  37 

Tho  coffin   is  pass'd  out,  lowcr'd  and  settled,  the  whip  is  laid 

on  the  coffin,  the  earth  is  swiftly  shovel'd  in, 
The  mound  above  is  flatted  with  the   spades — silence, 
A  minute— no  one  moves  or  speaks — it  is   done, 
He   is   decently  put  away — is   there   any  thing   more? 

He  was  a  good  fellow,  frec-mouth'd,  quick-temper'd,  not  bad- 
looking, 

Ready  with  life  or  death  for  a  friend,  fond  of  women,  gambled, 
ate  hearty,  drank  heart)-, 

Had  known  what  it  was  to  be  flush,  grew  low-spirited 
toward  the  lasr,  sicken'd,  was  helped  by  a  contribution, 

Died,   aged   forty-one  years — and   that  was   his   funeral. 

Let  me  read   you  another   description — one 
of  a  woman : 

Behold  a  woman! 

She  looks  out  from  her  quaker  cap,  her  face  is  clearer  and 
more  boautiful  than  the  sky. 

She   sits   in     an    armchair   under    the  shaded     porch    of   the 

farmhouse, 
The  sun  just  shines  on  her  old  white  head. 

Her  ample  gown  is  of  cream-hued  linen, 

Her  grandsons  raised  the  flax,  and  her  grand-daughters 
spun  it  with  tlie  distaff  and  the  wheel. 


38  LIBERTY  IX  LITERATURE. 

The   melodious  character  of  the   earth, 

The    finish    beyond    which    philosophy    cannot  go    and    does 

not  wish    to   go, 
The  justified   mother  of  men. 

Would   you  hear  of   an   old-time  sea  fight  ? 

Would  you   learn  who    won  by  the   light   of    the    moon  and 

stars  ? 
List   to  the   yarn,  as  my  grandmother's    father   the  sailor  told 

it   to  me. 

Our   foe  was   no    skulk  in  his  ship  I    tell  you,  (said    he,) 
His    was   the   surly    English   phick,    and   there   is    no    tougher 

or   truer,  and    never  was,    and    never  will   be ; 
Along   the   lower'd   eve   he  came  horribly  raking  us. 

We     closed     with     him.     the    yards     entangled,    the     cannon 

touched, 
My  captain   lash'd  fast  with   his   owm  hands. 

We    had     receiv'd    some     eighteen     pound     shots     under    the 

water, 
On   our    lower-guu-deck    two   large    pieces    had  burst    at    the 

first  fire,  killing  all  around  and  blowing  up   overhead. 

Fighting  at  sun-down,   fighting  at  dark, 

Ten  o'clock  at  night,  the  Full  moon  well   up,  our  leaks  on  the 
gain,  and   live  foot  of  water   reported, 


TESTIMONIAL  TO  WALT   WHITMAN.  39 

The  master-at-arms  loosing  the  prisoners  confined  in  the  after- 
hold  to  give  them  a  chance  for  themselves. 

The  transit  to  and  from   the  magazine  is   now  stopt  by  the 

sentinels, 
They  see  so  many  strange  faces  they  do  not  know  whom  to 

trust 

Our  frigate  takes   fire, 

The  other  usks   if  we   demand  quarter? 

If  our   colors  are   struck  and   the   fighting   done? 

Now  I  laugh  content,  for  I  hear  the  voice  of  my  little  cap- 
tain, 

"We  have  not  struck,''  he  composedly  cries,  "we  have  just 
begun  our  part  of  the  fighting." 

Only  three  guns   are   in   use, 

One  is   directed  by   the  captain   himself  against  the  enemy's 

mainmast, 
Two  well  serv'd  with  grape  and  canister  silence  his   musketry 

and  clear  his  decks. 

The  tops  alone  second  the  fire  of  this  little  battery,  especially 

the  main-top, 
They  hold  out  bravely  during  the  whole  of  the  action. 

Not  a  moment's  cease, 

The  leaks  gain  fast  on  the  pumps,  the  fire  eat*  toward  the 
powder-magazine. 


40  LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE. 

One    of  the    pumps   has    been    shot    away,    it    is    generally 

thought  we  are  sinking. 
Serene  stands  the  little  captain, 

He  is  not  hurried,  his  voice  is  neither  high  nor  low, 
His  eyes  give  more  light  to  us  than  our  battle-lanterns. 

Toward    twelve   there    in   the   beams   of  the   moon    they  sur- 
render to  us. 

Stretch'd  and  still  lies  the  midnight, 

Two  great  hulls  motionless  on  the  breast  of  the  darkness, 

Our    vessel   riddled   and   slowly  sinking,  preparations   to   pass 

to  the  one  we  have  conquer'd, 
The   captain    on    the    quarter-deck    coldly   giving    his    orders 

through  a  countenance  white  as  a  sheet, 
Near  by  the  corpse  of  the  child  that  serv'd  in  the  cabin, 
The  dead  face  of  an  old   salt  with  long  white   hair  and  care- 
fully curl'd  whiskers, 
The  flames  spite  of  all   that  can   be  done   flickering  aloft  and 

below, 
The   husky   voices    of    the  two  or   three  officers  yet   fit    for 

duty, 
Formless  stacks  of  bodies  and   bodies   by  themselves,  dabs  of 

flesh  upon  the  masts  and  spars, 
Cut  of  cordage,  dangle  of  rigging,  slight  shock  of  the  soothe 

of  waves, 
Black    and    impassive   guns,   litter  of  powder-parcels,    strong 

scent, 


TESTIMONIAL  TO  WALT  WHITMAN.  41 

A  few  large  stars  overhead,  silent  and  mournful  shining, 

Delicate  sniffs  of  sea-breeze,  smells  of  sedgy  grass  and  fields 
by  the  shore,  death-messages  given  m  charge  to  sur- 
vivors, 

The  hiss  of  the  surgeon's  knife,  the  gnawing  teeth  of  his 
saw, 

Wheeze,  cluck,  swash  of  falling  blood,  short  wild  scream,  and 
long,  dull,  tapering  groan. 

Some  people  say  that  this  is  not   poetry — 
that   it   lacks   measure   and   rhyme. 


42  LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE. 


VIJL 
WHAT  IS  POETRY? 

The  whole  world  is  engaged  in  the  invisible 
commerce  of  thought.  That  is  to  say,  in  t]^ 
exchange  of  thoughts  by  words,  symbols, 
sounds,  colors  and  forms.  The  motions  of 
the  silent,  invisible  world,  where  feeling  glows 
and  thought  flames — that  contains  all  seeds 
of  action — are  made  known  only  by  sounds 
and  colors,  forms,  objects,  relations,  uses  and 
qualities — so  that  the  visible  universe  is  a 
dictionary,  an  aggregation  of  symbols,  by 
which  and  through  which  is  carried  on  the 
invisible  commerce  of  thought.  Each  object  is 
capable  of  many  meanings,  or  of  being  used 
in  many  ways  to  convey  ideas  or  states  of 
feeling  or  of  facts  that  take  place  in  the  world 
of  the  brain. 

The  greatest  poet  is   the   one   who   selects 


TESTIMONIAL  TO  WALT  WHITMAN.  43 

the  best,  the  most  appropriate  symbols  to 
convey  the  best,  the  highest,  the  sublimest 
thoughts.  Each  man  occupies  a  world  of  his 
own.  He  is  the  only  citizen  of  his  world.  He 
is  subject  and  sovereign,  and  the  best  he  can 
do  is  to  give  the  facts  concerning  the  world 
in  which  he  lives  to  the  citizens  of  other 
worlds.  No  two  of  these  worlds  are  alike. 
They  are  of  all  kinds,  from  the  flat,  barren, 
and  uninteresting — from  the  small  and  shriv- 
eled and  worthless — to  those  whose  rivers  and 
mountains  and  seas  and  constellations  belittle 
and  cheapen  the  visible  world.  The  inhabit- 
ants of  these  marvelous  worlds  have  been 
the  singers  of  songs,  utterers  of  great  speech 
— the  creators  of  art. 

And  here  lies  the  difference  between  cre- 
ators and  imitators :  the  creator  tells  what 
passes  in  his  own  world — the  imitator  does 
not.  The  imitator  abdicates,  and  by  the  fact 
of  imitation  falls  upon  his  knees.  He  is  like 
one  who,  hearing  a  traveler  talk,  pretends  to 
others  that  he  has  traveled. 


44  LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE. 

In  nearly  all  lainls,  the  poet  has  been 
privileged — for  the  sake  of  beauty,  they  have 
allowed  him  to  speak,  and  for  that  reason 
he  has  told  the  story  of  the  oppressed,  and 
has  excited  the  indignation  of  honest  men 
and  even  the  pity  of  tyrants.  He,  above  all 
others,  has  added  to  the  intellectual  beauty 
of  the  world.  He  has  been  the  true  creator 
of  language,  and  has  left  his  impress  on 
mankind. 

What  I  have  said  is  not  only  true  of 
poetry — it  is  true  of  all  speech.  All  are 
compelled  to  use  the  visible  world  as  a 
dictionary.  Words  have  been  invented  and 
are  being  invented — for  the  reason  that  new 
powers  are  found  in  the  old  symbols,  new 
qualities,  relations,  uses  and  meanings.  The 
growth  of  language  is  necessary  on  account 
of  the  development  of  the  human  mind.  The 
savage  needs  but  few  symbols — the  civilized 
many — the  poet  most  of  all. 

The  old  idea  was,  however,  that  the  poet 
must  be  a  rhymer.  Before  printing  was 


TESTIMONIAL  TO  WALT  WHITMAN.  45 

known,    it   was   said :  the   rhyme    assists    the 
memory.     That  excuse  no  longer  exists. 

Is  rhyme  a  necessary  part  of  poetry?  In 
my  judgment,  rhyme  is  a  hindrance  to  ex- 
pression. The  rhymer  is  compelled  to  wander  \ 
from  his  subject — to  say  more  or  less  than  he 
means — to  introduce  irrelevant  matter  that 
interferes  continually  with  the  dramatic  ac- 
tion and  is  a  perpetual  obstruction  to  sincere 
utterance. 

All  poems,  of  necessity,  must  be  short. 
The  highly  and  purely  poetic  is  the  sudden 
bursting  into  blossom  of  a  great  and  tender 
thought.  The  planting  of  the  seed,  the 
growth,  the  bud  and  flower  must  be  rapid. 
The  spring  must  be  quick  and  warm — the 
soil  perfect,  the  sunshine  and  rain  enough — 
everything  should  tend  to  hasten,  nothing  to 
delay.  In  poetry,  as  in  wit,  the  crystalliza- 
tion must  be  sudden. 

The  greatest  poems  are  rhythmical.  While 
rhyme  is  a  hindrance,  rhythm  seems  to  be 
the  comrade  of  the  poetic.  Khythm  has  a, 


46  LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE. 

natural  foundation.  Under  emotion,  the  blood 
rises  and  falls,  the  muscles  contract  and 
relax,  and  this  action  of  the  blood  is  as 
rhythmical  as  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  sea. 
In  the  highest  form  of  expression,  the 
thought  should  be  in  harmony  with  this 
natural  ebb  and  flow. 

The  highest  poetic  truth  is  expressed  in 
rhythmical  form.  I  have  sometimes  thought 
that  an  idea  selects  its  own  words,  chooses 
its  own  garments,  and  that  when  the  thought 
has  possession,  absolutely,  of  the  speaker  or 
writer,  he  unconsciously  allows  the  thought 
to  clothe  itself. 

The  great  poetry  of  the  world  keeps 
time  with  the  winds  and  the  waves. 

I  do  not  mean  by  rhythm  a  recurring 
accent  at  accurately  measured  intervals. 
Perfect  time  is  the  death  of  music.  There 
should  always  be  room  for  eager  haste  and 
delicious  delay,  and  whatever  change  there 
may  be  in  the  rhythm  or  time,  the  action 
itself  should  suggest  perfect  freedom. 


TESTIMONIAL  TO  WALT  WHITMAN.  47 

A  word  more  about  rhythm.  I  believe 
that  certain  feelings  and  passions — joy,  grief, 
emulation,  revenge,  produce  certain  molec- 
ular movements  in  the  brain — that  every 
thought  is  accompanied  by  certain  physical 
phenomena.  Now  it  may  be  that  certain 
sounds,  colors,  and  forms  produce  the  same 
molecular  action  in  the  brain  that  accom- 
panies certain  feelings,  and  that  these  sounds, 
colors  and  forms  produce  first,  the  molecular 
movements  and  these  in  their  turn  reproduce 
the  feelings,  emotions  and  states  of  mind 
capable  of  producing  the  same  or  like 
molecular  movements.  So  that  what  we 
call  heroic  music,  produces  the  same  molec- 
ular action  in  the  brain — the  same  phys- 
ical changes — that  are  produced  by  the  real 
feeling  of  heroism ;  that  the  sounds  we  call 
plaintive  produce  the  same  molecular  move- 
ment in  the  brain  that  grief,  or  the  twi- 
light of  grief,  actually  produces.  There  may 
be  a  rhythmical  molecular  movement  belong- 
ing to  each  state  of  mind,  that  accompanies 


48  LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE. 

each  thought  or  passion,  and  it  may  be 
that  music,  or  painting,  or  sculpture,  pro- 
duces the  same  state  of  mind  or  feeling 
that  produces  the  music  or  painting  or 
sculpture,  by  producing  the  same  molecu- 
lar movements. 

All  arts  are  born  of  the  same  spirit,  and 
express  like  thoughts  in  different  ways — 
that  is  to  say,  they  produce  like  states  of 
mind  and  feeling.  The  sculptor,  the  painter, 
the  composer,  the  poet,  the  orator,  work  to 
the  same  end,  with  different  materials.  The 
painter  expresses  through  form  and  color 
and  relation  ;  the  sculptor  through  form  and 
relation.  The  poet  also  paints  and  chisels 
— his  words  give  form,  relation  and  color. 
His  statues  and  his  paintings  do  not  crum- 
ble, neither  do  they  fade,  nor  will  they  as 
long  as  language  endures.  The  composer 
touches  the  passions,  produces  the  very  states 
of  feeling  produced  by  the  painter  and 
sculptor,  the  poet  and  orator.  In  all  these 


TESTIMONIAL  TO  WALT  WHITMAN.  49 

there  must  be  rhythm — that  is  to  say,  pro- 
portion— that  is  to  say,  harmony,  melody. 

So  that  the  greatest  poet  is  the  one  who 
idealizes  the  common,  who  gives  new  mean- 
ings to  old  symbols,  who  transfigures  the 
ordinary  things  of  life.  He  must  deal  with 
the  hopes  and  fears,  and  with  the  experi- 
ences of  the  people. 

The  poetic  is  not  the  exceptional.  A  per- 
fect poem  is  like  a  perfect  day.  It  has  the 
undefinable  charm  of  naturalness  and  ease. 
It  must  not  appear  to  be  the  result  of 
great  labor.  We  feel,  in  spite  of  ourselves, 
that  man  does  best  that  which  he  does 
easiest. 

The  great  poet  is  the  instrumentality,  not 
always  of  his  time,  but  of  the  best  of  his 
time,  and  he  must  be  in  unison  and  accord 
with  the  ideals  of  his  race.  The  sublimer 
he  is,  the  simpler  he  is.  The  thoughts  of 
the  people  must  be  clad  in  the  garments 
of  feeling— the  words  must  be  known,  apt, 


50  LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE. 

familiar.  The  hight  must  be  in  the  thought, 
in  the  sympathy. 

In  the  olden  time  they  used  to  have  May 
day  parties,  and  the  prettiest  child  was 
crowned  Queen  of  May.  Imagine  an  old 
blacksmith  and  his  wife  looking  at  their 
little  daughter  clad  in  white  and  crowned 
with  roses.  They  would  wonder  while  they 
looked  at  her,  how  they  ever  came  to  have 
so  beautiful  a  child.  It  is  thus  that  the 
poet  clothes  the  intellectual  children  or 
ideals  of  the  people.  They  must  not  be 
gemmed  and  garlanded  beyond  the  recogni- 
tion of  their  parents.  Out  from  all  the 
flowers  and  beauty  must  look  the  eyes  of 
the  child  they  know. 

We  have  grown  tired  of  gods  and  god- 
desses in  art.  Milton's  heavenly  militia  ex- 
cites our  laughter.  Light-houses  have  driven 
sirens  from  the  dangerous  coasts.  We  have 
found  that  we  do  not  depend  on  the  imag- 
ination for  wonders— there  are  millions  of 
miracles  under  our  feet. 


TESTIMONIAL  TO  WALT  WHITMAN.  51 

Nothing  can  be  more  marvelous  than  the 
common  and  everyday  facts  of  life.  The 
phantoms  have  been  cast  aside.  Men  and 
women  are  enough  for  men  and  women.  In 
their  lives  is  all  the  tragedy  and  all  the 
comedy  that  they  can  comprehend. 

The  painter  no  longer  crowds  his  canvas 
with  the  winged  and  impossible — he  paints 
life  as  he  sees  it,  people  as  he  knows  them, 
and  in  whom  he  is  interested.  "The  An- 
gelus,"  the  perfection  of  pathos,  is  nothing 
but  two  peasants  bending  their  heads  in 
thankfulness  as  they  hear  the  solemn  sound 
of  the  distant  bell — two  peasants,  who  have 
nothing  to  be  thankful  for  —  nothing  but 
weariness  and  want,  nothing  but  the  crusts 
that  they  soften  with  their  tears — nothing. 
And  yet  as  you  look  at  that  picture  you 
feel  that  they  have  something  besides  to  be 
thankful  for — that  they  have  life,  love,  and 
hope — and  so  the  distant  bell  makes  music 
in  their  simple  hearts. 


52  LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE. 


IX. 

The  attitude  of  Whitman  toward  religion 
has  not  been  understood.  Towards  all  forms 
of  worship,  towards  all  creeds,  he  has  main- 
tained the  attitude  of  absolute  fairness.  He 
does  not  believe  that  Nature  has  given  her 
last  message  to  man.  He  does  not  believe 
that  all  has  been  ascertained.  He  denies 
that  any  sect  has  written  down  the  entire 
truth.  He  believes  in  progress,  and,  so  be- 
lieving, he  says  : 

We  consider  bibles  and  religions   divine— I   do  not  say   they 

are  not  -divine, 
I  say  they  have  all   grown  out  of  you,  and  may  grow  out  of 

you  still, 
It  is  not  they  who  give  the  life,  it  is  you  who  give  the  life. 

His   [the  poet's]   thoughts  are  the  hymns  of  the  praise  of 

things, 
In  the  dispute  on  God  and  eternity  he  is  silent 


TESTIMONIAL  TO  WALT  WHITMAN.  53 

Have  you  thought  there  could  be  but  a  single  supreme? 

There  can  be  any  number  of  supremes— one  does  not  counter- 
vail another  any  more  than  one  eyesight  countervails 
another. 

Upon  the  great  questions,  as  to  the  great 
problems,  he  feels  only  the  serenity  of  a  great 
and  well-poised  soul. 

No  array  of  terms  can  say  how  much  I  am  at  peace  about 
God  and  about  death. 

I  hear  and  behold  God  in  every  object,  yet  understand  God 

not  in  the  least, 
Nor  do  I  understand  who  there  can   be  more  wonderful   than 

myself.     .     .    . 

In  the   faces  of  men  and  women  I    see  God,  and  in  my  own 

face  in  the  glass, 
1  find    letters  from    God  dropt  in    the  street,  and  every  one 

is  sign'd  by  God's  name. 

The  whole  visible  world  is  regarded  by  him 
as  a  revelation,  and  so  is  the  invisible  world, 
and  with  this  feeling  he  writes : 

Not  objecting  to  special  revelations — considering  a  curl  of 
smoke  or  a  hair  on  the  back  of  my  hand  just  as 
curious  as  any  revelation. 


54  LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE. 

The  creeds  do  not  satisfy,  the  old  mythol- 
ogies are  not  enough ;  they  are  too  narrow 
at  best,  giving  only  hints  and  suggestions ; 
and  feeling  this  lack  in  that  which  has  been 
written  and  preached,  Whitman  says  : 

Magnifying  and  applying  come  I, 
Outbidding  at  the  start  the  old   cautious   hucksters, 
Taking  myself  the  exact  dimensions   of  Jehovah, 
Lithographing     Kronos,     Zeus     his    son,    and     Hercules    his 

grandson, 

Buying  drafts  of  Osiris,  Isis,  Belus,  Brahma,  Buddha, 
In  my   portfolio   placing    Manito    loose,  Allah   on   a   leaf,    the 

crucifix  engraved, 
"With    Odin    and    the    hideous-faced    Mexitli,    and    every   idol 

and  image, 
Taking    them  all   for  what  they  are  worth,   and  not  a  cent 

more. 

Whitman  keeps  open  house.  He  is  intel- 
lectually hospitable.  He  extends  his  hand 
to  a  new  idea.  He  does  not  accept  a  creed 
because  it  is  wrinkled  and  old  and  has  a 
long  white  beard.  He  knows  that  hypocrisy 
has  a  venerable  look,  and  that  it  relies  on 
looks  and  masks  —  on  stupidity  —  and  fear. 


TESTIMONIAL  TO  WALT  WHITMAN.  55 

Neither  does  he  reject  or  accept  the  new 
because  it  is  new.  He  wants  the  truth,  and 
so  he  welcomes  all  until  he  knows  just  who 
and  what  they  are. 


56  LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE. 


X. 
PHILOSOPHY. 

Walt  Whitman  is  a  philosopher. 

The  more  a  man  has  thought,  the  more 
he  has  studied,  the  more  he  has  traveled 
intellectually,  the  less  certain  he  is.  Only 
the  very  ignorant  are  perfectly  satisfied  that 
they  know.  To  the  common  man  the  great 
problems  are  easy.  He  has  no  trouble  in 
accounting  for  the  universe.  He  can  tell 
you  the  origin  and  destiny  of  man  and  the 
why  and  the  wherefore  of  things.  As  a  rule, 
he  is  a  believer  in  special  providence,  and 
is  egotistic  enough  to  suppose  that  every- 
thing that  happens  in  the  universe  happens 
in  reference  to  him. 

A  colony  of  red  ants  lived  at  the  foot  of 
the  Alps.  It  happened  one  day,  that  an 
avalanche  destroyed  the  hill;  and  one  of  the 


TESTIMONIAL  TO  WALT  WHITMAN.  57 

ants  was  heard  to  remark :  "  Who  could 
have  taken  so  much  trouble  to  destroy  our 
home  ?" 

Walt  Whitman  walked  by  the  side  of  the 
sea  "  where  the  fierce  old  mother  endlessly 
cries  for  her  castaways,"  and  endeavored  to 
think  out,  to  fathom  the  mystery  of  being; 
and  he  said : 

I  too  but  signify  at  the  utmost  a  little  wash'd-up  drift, 

A  few  sands  and  dead  leaves  to  gather, 

Gather,  and  merge  myself  as  part  of  the  sanda  and  drift. 

Aware  now  that  amid  all  that  blab  whose  echoes  recoil  upon 

me   I   have  not  once  had   the   least   idea  who  or  what 

I  am, 
But  that  before  all    my  arrogant   poems    the    real   Me  stands 

yet  untouch'd,  untold,  altogether  unreach'd, 
Withdrawn   far,  mocking    mo  with   mock-congratulatory   signs 

and  bows, 
With   peals  of  distant  ironical  laughter  at  every  word  I  have 

written, 
Pointing  in  silence    to    these    songs,   and   then    to    the    sand 

beneath.      .     .    . 
I  perceive  I  have  not  really  understood  any  thing,  not  a  single 

object,  and  that  no  man  ever  can. 


58  LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE. 

There  is  in  our  language  no  profounder 
poem  than  the  one  entitled  "Elemental 
Drifts." 

The  effort  to  find  the  origin  has  ever 
been,  and  will  forever  be,  fruitless.  Those 
who  endeavor  to  find  the  secret  of  life  re- 
semble a  man  looking  in  the  mirror,  who 
thinks  that  if  he  only  could  be  quick 
enough  he  could  grasp  the  image  that  he 
sees  behind  the  glass. 

The  latest  word  of  this  poet  upon  this 
subject  is  as  follows : 

"  To  me  this  life  with  all  its  realities 
and  functions  is  finally  a  mystery,  the  real 
something  yet  to  be  evolved,  and  the  stamp 
and  shape  and  life  here  somehow  giving  an 
important,  perhaps  the  main,  outline  to 
something  further. .  Somehow  this  hangs  over 
everything  else,  and  stands  behind  it,  is 
inside  of  all  facts,  and  the  concrete  and 
material,  and  the  worldly  affairs  of  life  anc) 
sense.  That  is  the  purport  and  meaning 


TESTIMONIAL  TO  WALT   WHITMAN.  59 

behind  all  the  other  meanings  of  LEAVES 
OF  GRASS." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  questions  of  ori- 
gin and  destiny  are  beyond  the  grasp  of 
the  human  mind.  We  can  see  a  certain 
distance ;  beyond  that,  everything  is  indis- 
tinct;  and  beyond  the  indistinct  is  the  un- 
seen. In  the  presence  of  these  mysteries — 
and  everything  is  a  mystery  so  far  as 
origin,  destiny,  and  nature  are  concerned — 
the  intelligent,  honest  man  is  compelled  to 
say,  "  I  do  not  know." 

In  the  great  midnight  a  few  truths  like 
stars  shine  on  forever — and  from  the  brain 
of  man  come  a  few  struggling  gleams  of 
light — a  few  momentary  sparks. 

Some  have  contended  that  everything  is 
spirit ;  others  that  everything  is  matter ;  and 
again,  others  have  maintained  that  a  part  is 
matter  and  a  part  is  spirit;  some  that  spirit 
was  first  and  matter  after ;  others  that  mat- 
ter was  first  and  spirit  after ;  and  others 
that  matter  and  spirit  have  existed  together. 


60  LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE. 

But  none  of  these  people  can  by  any  pos- 
sibility tell  what  matter  is,  or  what  spirit  is, 
or  what  the  difference  is  between  spirit  and 
matter. 

The  materialists  look  upon  the  spiritual- 
ists as  substantially  crazy ;  and  the  spirit- 
ualists regard  the  materialists  as  low  and 
groveling.  These  spiritualistic  people  hold 
matter  in  contempt ;  but,  after  all,  matter  is 
quite  a  mystery.  You  take  in  your  hand  a 
little  earth — a  little  dust.  Do  you  know 
what  it  is  ?  In  4  this  dust  you  put  a  seed ; 
the  rain  falls  upon  it;  the  light  strikes  it; 
the  seed  grows ;  it  bursts  into  blossom ;  it 
produces  fruit. 

What  is  this  dust — this  womb?  Do  you 
understand  it?  Is  there  anything  in  the 
wide  universe  more  wonderful  than  this? 

Take  a  grain  of  sand,  reduce  it  to  powder, 
take  the  smallest  possible  particle,  look  at 
it  with  a  microscope,  contemplate  its  every 
part  for  days,  and  it  remains  the  citadel  of 
a  secret— an  impregnable  fortress.  Bring  all 


TESTIMONIAL  TO  WALT  WHITMAN.  61 

the  theologians,  philosophers,  and  scientists 
in  serried  ranks  against  it;  let  them  attack 
on  every  side  with  all  the  arts  and  arms  of 
thought  and  force.  The  citadel  does  not  fall. 
Over  the  battlements  floats  the  flag,  and  the 
victorious  secret  smiles  at  the  baffled  hosts. 

Walt  Whitman  did  not  and  does  not  im- 
agine that  he  has  reached  the  limit — the 
end  of  the  road  traveled  by  the  human  race. 
He  knows  that  every  victory  over  nature  is 
but  the  preparation  for  another  battle.  This 
truth  was  in  his  mind  when  he  said  :  "  Un- 
derstand me  well ;  it  is  provided  in  the  es- 
sence of  things,  that  from  any  fruition  of 
success,  no  matter  what,  shall  come  forth 
something  to  make  a  greater  struggle  neces- 
sary." 

This  is  the  generalization  of  all  history. 


62  LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE. 


XL 
THE  TWO  POEMS. 

There  are  two  of  these  poems  to  which  I 
have  time  to  call  special  attention.  The 
first  is  entitled,  "A  Word  Out  of  the  Sea." 

The  boy,  coming  out  of  the  rocked  cradle, 
wandering  over  the  sands  and  fields,  up  from 
the  mystic  play  of  shadows,  out  of  the 
patches  of  briers  and  blackberries — from  the 
memories  of  birds — from  the  thousand  re- 
sponses of  his  heart — goes  back  to  the  sea 
and  his  childhood,  and  sings  a  reminiscence. 

Two  guests  from  Alabama — two  birds — 
build  their  nest,  and  there  were  four  light 
green  eggs,  spotted  with  brown,  and  the  two 
birds  sang  for  joy : 

Shine!  shine!  shine! 

Pour  down  your  warmth,  great  sun! 

"While  we  bask,  we  two  together. 


TESTIMONIAL  TO  WALT  WHITMAN.  63 

Two  together! 

Winds  blow  south,  or  winds  blow  north, 
Day  come  white,  or  night  come  black, 
Home,  or  rivers  and  mountains  from  home, 
Singing  all  time,  minding  no  time, 
While  we  two  keep  together. 

In  a  little  while  one  of  the  birds  is  missed 
and  never  appeared  again,  and  all  through 
the  summer  the  mate,  the  solitary  guest,  was 
singing  of  the  lost : 

Blow  !  blow !  blow ! 

Blow  up  sea-winds  along   Paumanok's  shore; 

I  wait  and  I  wait  till  you  blow  my  mate  to  me. 

And  the  boy"  that  night,  blending  himself 
with  the  shadows,  with  bare  feet,  went  down 
to  the  sea,  where  the  white  arms  out  in  the 
breakers  were  tirelessly  tossing ;  listening  to 
the  songs  and  translating  the  notes. 

And  the  singing  bird  called  loud  and  high 
for  the  mate,  wondering  what  the  dusky  spot 
was  in  the  brown  and  yellow,  seeing  the 
mate  whichever  way  he  looked,  piercing  the 
woods  and  the  earth  with  his  song,  hoping 


G4  LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE. 

that  the  mate  might  hear  his  cry ;  stopping 
that  he  might  not  lose  her  answer ;  waiting  and 
then  crying  again :  "  Here  I  am !  And  this 
gentle  call  is  for  you.  Do  not  be  deceived 
by  the  whistle  of  the  wind ;  those  are  the 
shadows ;"  and  at  last  crying : 

0  past!  0  happy  life!  0  songs  of  joy! 
In  the  air,  in  the  woods,  over  fields, 
Loved!  loved!  loved!  loved!  loved! 
But  my  mate  no  more,  no  more  with  me! 
We  two  together  no  more. 

And  then  the  boy,  understanding  the  song 
that  had  awakened  in  his  breast  a  thousand 
songs  clearer  and  louder  and  more  sorrowful 
than  the  bird's,  knowing  that  the  cry  of  un- 
satisfied love  would  never  again  be  absent 
from  him ;  thinking  then  of  the  destiny  of 
all,  and  asking  of  the  sea  the  final  word, 
and  the  sea  answering,  delaying  not  and 
hurrying  not,  spoke  the  low  delicious  word 
"Death!"  "ever  Death!" 

The  next  poem,  one  that  will  live  as  long 
as  our  language,  entitled :  "  When  Lilacs 


TESTIMONIAL  TO  WALT  WHITMAN.  65 

Last    in   the    Dooryard    Bloom'd,"    is   on   the 
death  of  Lincoln, 

The  sweetest,  wisest  soul  of  all  ray  days  and  lands. 

One  who  reads  this  will  never  forget  the 
odor  of  the  lilac,  "  the  lustrous  western  star  " 
and  "  the  grey-brown  bird  singing  in  the 
pines  and  cedars." 

In  this  poem  the  dramatic  unities  are  per- 
fectly preserved,  the  atmosphere  and  climate 
in  harmony  with  every  event. 

Never  will  he  forget  the  solemn  journey  of 
the  coffin  through  day  and  night,  with  the 
great  cloud  darkening  the  land,  nor  the 
pomp  of  inlooped  flags,  the  processions  long 
and  winding,  the  flambeaus  of  night,  the 
torches'  flames,  the  silent  sea  of  faces,  the 
unbared  heads,  the  thousand  voices  rising 
strong  and  solemn,  the  dirges,  the  shudder- 
ing organs,  the  tolling  bells — and  the  sprig 
of  lilac. 

And  then  for  a  moment  they  will  hear  the 
grey-brown  bird  singing  in  the  cedars,  bash- 


66  LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE. 

ful  and  tender,  while  the  lustrous  star  lingers 
in  the  West,  and  they  will  remember  the 
pictures  hung  on  the  chamber  walls  to  adorn 
the  burial  house — pictures  of  spring  and  farms 
and  homes,  and  the  grey  smoke  lucid  and 
bright,  and  the  floods  of  yellow  gold — of  the 
gorgeous  indolent  sinking  sun — the  sweet  her- 
bage under  foot — the  green  leaves  of  the  trees 
prolific — the  breast  of.  the  river  with  the  wind- 
dapple  here  and  there,  and  the  varied  and 
ample  land — and  the  most  excellent  sun  so 
calm  and  haughty — the  violet  and  purple  morn 
with  just-felt  breezes — the  gentle  soft  born 
measureless  light — the  miracle  spreading,  bath- 
ing all — the  fulfill'd  noon — the  coming  eve 
delicious  and  the  welcome  night  and  the 
stars. 

And  then  again  they  will  hear  the  song  of 
the  grey-brown  bird  in  the  limitless  dusk 
amid  the  cedars  and  pines.  Again  they  will 
remember  the  star,  and  again  the  odor  of  the 
lilac. 


TESTIMONIAL  TO  WALT  WHITMAN.  67 

But  most  of  all,  the  song  of  the  bird  trans- 
lated and  becoming  the  chant  for  death  : 

A    CHANT    FOR    DEATH. 

Come  lovely  and  soothing  death, 

Undulate  round  the  world,  serenely  arriving,  arriving, 

In  the  day,  in  the  night  to  all,  to  each, 

Sooner  or  later  delicate  death. 

Prais'd  be  the  fathomless  universe, 

For  life  and  joy,  and  for  objects  and  knowledge  curious, 
And  for  love,  sweet  love — but  praise!  praise!  praise! 
For  the  sure-enwinding  arms  of  cool-enfolding  death. 

Dark  mother  always  gliding  near  with  soft  feet, 
Have  none  chanted  for  thee  a  chant  of  fullest  welcome  ? 
Then  I  chant  it  for  thee,  I  glorify  thee  above  all, 
I    bring    thee    a    song    that    when    thou    must    indeed    come, 
come  unfalteringly. 

Approach  strong  deliveress, 

When  it  is  so,  when  thou  hast  taken  them   I  joyously  sing 

the  dead, 

Lost  in  the  loving  floating  ocean  of  thee, 
Laved  in  the  flood  of  thy  bliss  0  death. 

From  me  to  thee  glad  serenades, 

Dances    for    thee    I    propose    saluting    thee,    adornments    and 
feastings   for  thee, 


68  LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE. 

And  the  sights  of  the  open    landscape    and  the  high  spread 

sky  are  fitting, 
And  life  and  the  fields,  and  the  huge  and  thoughtful  night 

The  night  in   silence  under  many  a   star, 

The    ocean    shore    and    the     husky    whispering    wave    whose 

voice   I   know, 

And  the  soul   turning  to  thee   0   vast  and   well-veil'd   death, 
And  the  body   gratefully   nestling  close  to  thee. 

Over  the  tree-tops  I   float  thee  a  song, 

Over  the  rising    and    sinking   waves,    over    the    myriad   fields 

and  the   prairies   wide, 
Over    the    dense-pack'd    cities    all    and    the    teeming   wharves 

and   ways, 
I  float  this  carol  with  joy,    with  joy   to  thee   0   death. 

This  poem,  in  memory  of  "  the  sweetest, 
wisest  soul  of  all  our  days  and  lands,"  and  for 
whose  sake  lilac  and  star  and  bird  entwined, 
will  last  as  long  as  the  memory  of  Lincoln. 


TESTIMONIAL  TO  WALT  WHITMAN.  69 


XIT. 

OLD  AGE. 

Walt  Whitman  is  not  only  the  poet  of  child- 
hood, of  youth,  of  manhood,  but,  above  all,  of 
old  age.  He  has  not  been  soured  by  slander 
or  petrified  by  prejudice  ;  neither  calumny  nor 
flattery  has  made  him  revengeful  or  arrogant. 
Now  sitting  by  the  fireside,  in  the  winter  of  life, 

His  jocund   heart  still   beating   in   his   breast, 

he  is  just  as  brave  and  calm  and  kind  as  in 
his  manhood's  proudest  days,  when  roses 
blossomed  in  his  cheeks.  He  has  taken  life's 
seven  steps.  Now,  as  the  gamester  might  say, 
"  on  velvet."  He  is  enjoying  "  old  age  ex- 
panded, broad,  with  the  haughty  breadth  of 
the  universe  ;  old  age,  flowing  free,  with  the 
delicious  near-by  freedom  of  death ;  old  age, 
superbly  rising,  welcoming  the  ineffable  aggre- 
gation of  dying  days." 


70  LIBERTY  IX  LITERATURE. 

Ke  is  taking  the  "  loftiest  look  at  last,"  and 
before  he  goes   he   utters   thanks : 

For  health,  the  midday  sun,  the  impalpable  air — for  life, 
mere*  life, 

For  precious  ever-lingering  memories,  (of  you  my  mother 
dear  you,  father  —you,  brothers,  sisters,  friends,) 

For  all  my  days -not  those  of  peace  alone  the  days  of  war 
the  same, 

For  gentle  words,    caresses,   gifts   from   foreign  lands, 

For  shelter,   wine  and   meat— for   sweet  appreciation, 

(You  distant,  dim  unknown— or  young  or  old— countless,  un- 
specified, readers  belov'd, 

We  never  met,  and  ne'er  shall  meet  -  and  yet  our  souls  em- 
brace, long,  close  and  long.) 

For  beings,  groups,  love,  deeds,  words,  books— for  colors, 
forms, 

For  a1!  the  brave  st-ong  men-devo'ed,  hardy  men— who've 
forward  sprung  in  freedom's  help,  all  year.",  all  lands, 

For  braver,  stronger,  more  dovoted  men  (a  special  laurel  ere 
I  go,  to  life's  war's  chosen  ones, 

The  cannoneers  of  SMig  and  thought  —  the  great  artillerists — 
the  foremost  leaders,  captains  of  the  soul). 

It  is  a  great  thing  to  preach  philosophy — far 
greater   to   live    it.      The   highest    philosophy 


TESTIMONIAL  TO  WALT   WHITMAN.  71 

accepts  the  inevitable  with  a  smile,  and  greets 
it  as  though  it  were  desired. 

To  be  satisfied  :   This  is  wealth — success. 

The  real  philosopher  knows  that  everything 
has  happened  that  could  have  happened — con- 
sequently he  accepts.  He  is  glad  that  he  has 
lived — glad  that  he  has  had  his  moment  on 
the  stage.  In  this  spirit  Whitman  has  accepted 
life. 

I   shall  go   forth, 

I  shall  traverse  the  States  awhile,  but  I  cannot  tell  whither 

or  how  long, 
Perhaps    soon    some    day  or    night  while  I   am    singing    ray 

voice  will  suddenly  cease. 

0  book,   0  chants !   must  all  then   amount  to  but  this  ? 
Must  we  barely  arrive    at    this    beginning  of   us  ? — and    yet 

it   is   enough,    0   soul ; 
0  soul,   we  have   positively  appear'd — that   is  enough. 

Yes,  "Walt  Whitman  has  appeared.  He  has 
his  place  upon  the  stage.  The  drama  is  not 
ended.  His  voice  is  still  heard.  He  is  the 
Poet  of  Democracy — of  all  people.  He  is  the 
poet  of  the  body  and  soul.  He  has  sounded 


72  LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE 

the  note  of  Individuality.  He  has  given  the 
pass-word  primeval.  He  is  the  Poet  of  Hu- 
manity— of  Intellectual  Hospitality.  He  has 
voiced  the  aspirations  of  America — and,  above 
all,  he  is  the  poet  of  Love  and  Death. 

How  grandly,  how  bravely  he  has  given  his 
thought,  and  how  superb  is  his  farewell — his 
leave-taking  : 

After  the  supper  and  talk — after  the  day  is  done, 

As  a  friend   from  friends  his  final  withdrawal  prolonging, 

Good-bye  and   Good-b}re  with  emotional   lips  repeating, 

(So  hard   for    his    hand   to  release  those   hands— no  more  will 

they  meet, 

No  more  for  communion  of  sorrow  arid  joy,  of  old  and  young, 
A  far-stretching  journey  awaits  him,  to  return  no  more,) 
Shunning,  postponing  severance     seeking   to  ward  off   the  last 

word  ever  so  little, 
E'en  at  the  exit-door  turning  -  charges  superfluous  calling  back 

—  e'en  as  he  descends  the  steps, 

Something   to  eke  out  a  minute  additional— shadows  of  night- 
fall deepening, 
Farewells,  messages   lessening — dimmer  the   forthgoer's  visage 

and  form, 

Soon    to   be   lost  for  aye   in    the  darkness    loth,  0  so  loth  to 
depart  1 


TESTIMONIAL  TO  WALT  WHITMAN.  73 

And  is  this  all?  Will  the  forthgoer  be  lost, 
and  forever  ?  Is  death  the  end  ?  Over  the 
grave  beiids  Love  sobbing,  and  by  her  side 
stands  Hope  and  whispers  : 

We  shall  meet  again.  Before  all  life  is 
death,  and  after  all  death  is  life.  The  falling 
leaf,  touched  with  the  hectic  flush,  that  testi- 
fies of  autumn's  death,  is,  in  a  subtler  sense,  a 
prophecy  of  spring. 

Walt  Whitman  has  dreamed  great  dreams, 
told  great  truths  and  uttered  sublime  thoughts. 
He  has  held  aloft  the  torch  and  bravely  led 
t':e  way. 

As  you  read  the  marvelous  book,  or  the 
person,  called  "  Leaves  of  Grass,"  you  feel 
the  freedom  of  the  antique  world  ;  you  hear 
the  voices  of  the  morning,  of  the  first  great 
singers — voices  elemental  as  those  of  sea  and 
storm.  The  horizon  enlarges,  the  heavens 
grow  ample,  limitations  are  forgotten — the 
realization  of  the  will,  the  accomplishment  of 
the  ideal,  seem  to  be  within  your  power.  Ob- 
structions become  petty  and  disappear.  The 


74  LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE. 

chains  and  bars  are  broken,  and  the  distinc- 
tions of  caste  are  lost.  The  soul  is  in  the 
open  air,  under  the  blue  and  stars— the  flag 
of  Nature.  Creeds,  theories  and  philoso- 
phies ask  to  be  examined,  contradicted,  re- 
constructed. Prejudices  disappear,  supersti- 
tions vanish  and  custom  abdicates.  The 
sacred  places  become  highways,  duties  and 
desires  clasp  hands  and  become  comrades 
and  friends.  Authority  drops  the  scepter, 
the  priest  the  miter,  and  the  purple  falls 
from  kings.  The  inanimate  becomes  articu- 
late, the  meanest  and  humblest  things  utter 
speech  and  the  dumb  and  voiceless  burst  into 
song.  A  feeling  of  independence  takes  pos- 
session of  the  soul,  the  body  expands,  the 
blood  flows  full  and  free,  superiors  vanish, 
flattery  is  a  lost  art,  and  life  becomes  rich, 
royal,  and  superb.  The  v.oiltl  becomes  a  per- 
sonal possession,  and  tho  oceans,  the  conti- 
nents, and  constellations  belong  to  you.  You 
are  in  the  center,  everything  radiates  from  you, 
and  in  your  veins  beats  and  throbs  the  pulse 


TESTIMONIAL  TO  WALT  WHITMAN.  75 

of  all  life.  You  become  a  rover,  careless  and 
free.  You  wander  by  the  shores  of  all  seas 
and  hear  the  eternal  psalm.  You  feel  the 
silence  of  the  wide  forest,  and  stand  beneath 
the  intertwined  and  over  arching  boughs,  en- 
tranced with  symphonies  of  winds  and  woods. 
You  are  borne  on  the  tides  of  eager  and  swift 
rivers,  hear  the  rush  and  roar  of  cataracts  as 
they  fall  beneath  the  seven-hued  arch,  and 
watch  the  eagles  as  they  circling  soar*  You 
traverse  gorges  dark  and  dim,  and  climb  the 
scarred  and  threatening  cliffs.  You  stand  in 
orchards  where  the  blossoms  fall  like  snow, 
where  the  birds  nest  and  sing,  and  painted 
moths  make  aimless  journeys  through  the 
happy  air.  You  live  the  lives  of  those  who 
till  the  earth,  and  walk  amid  the  perfumed 
fields,  hear  the  reapers'  song,  and  feel  the 
breadth  and  scope  of  earth  and  sky.  You  are 
in  the  great  cities,  in  the  midst  of  multitudes, 
of  the  endless  processions.  You  are  on  the 
wide  plains — the  prairies — with  hunter  and 
trapper,  with  savage  and  pioneer,  and  you  feel 


76  LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE. 

the  soft  grass  yielding  under  your  feet.  You 
sail  in  many  ships,  and  breathe  the  free  air  of 
the  sea.  You  travel  many  roads,  and  countless 
paths.  You  visit  palaces  and  prisons,  hospitals 
and  courts ;  you  pity  kings  and  convicts,  and 
your  sympathy  goes  out  to  all  the  suffering  and 
insane,  the  oppressed  and  enslaved,  and  even 
to  the  infamous.  You  hear  the  din  of  labor, 
all  sounds  of  factory,  field,  and  forest,  of  all 
tools,  instruments  and  machines.  You  become 
familiar  with  men  and  women  of  all  employ- 
ments, trades  and  professions — with  birth  and 
burial,  with  wedding  feast  and  funeral  chant. 
You  see  the  cloud  and  flame  of  war,  and  you 
enjoy  the  ineffable  perfect  days  of  peace. 
In  this  one  book,  in  these  wondrous  "Leaves 
of  Grass,"  you  find  hints  and  suggestions, 
touches  and  fragments,  of  all  there  is  of  life, 
that  lies  between  the  babe,  whose  rounded 
cheeks  dimple  beneath  his  mother's  laughing, 
loving  eyes,  and  the  old  man,  snow-crowned, 
who,  with  a  smile,  extends  his  hand  to 
death. 


TESTIMONIAL  TO  WALT  WHITMAN. 


77 


We  have  met  to-night  to  honor  our- 
selves by  honoring  the  author  of  "Leaves 
of  Grass." 


A  DDR eSS    AT    THB 

Funeral    of    Walt    Whitman 

BY  ROBERT  0.  INGERSOLL, 

to  Harlelgh,  Camden,   New  Jersey,   March  30,  1892, 


AGAIN,  we,  in  the  mystery  of  Life,  are  brought 
face  to  face  with  the  mystery  of  Death.  A  great 
man,  a  great  American,  the  most  eminent  citizen 
of  this  Republic,  lies  dead  before  us,  and  we 
have  met  to  pay  tribute  to  his  greatness  and 
his  worth. 

I  know  he  needs  no  words  of  mine.  His 
fame  is  secure.  He  laid  the  foundations  of  it 
deep  in  the  human  heart  and  brain.  He  was, 
above  all  I  have  known,  the  poet  of  humanity, 
of  sympathy.  He  was  so  great  that  he  rose 


80  LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE. 

above  the  greatest  that  he  met  without  arro- 
gance, and  so  great  that  he  stooped  to  the 
lowest  without  conscious  condescension.  He 
never  claimed  to  be  lower  or  greater  than  any 
of  the  sons  of  men. 

He  came  into  our  generation  a  free,  untram- 
meled  spirit,  with  sympathy  for  all.  His  arm 
was  beneath  the  form  of  the  sick.  He  sympa- 
thized with  the  imprisoned  and  despised,  and 
even  on  the  brow  of  crime  he  was  great  enough 
to  place  the  kiss  of  human  sympathy. 

One  of  the  greatest  lines  in  our  literature  is 
his,  and  the  line  is  great  enough  to  do  honor  to 
the  greatest  genius  that  has  ever  lived.  He 
said,  speaking  of  an  outcast :  "  Not  until  the 
sun  excludes  you  will  I  exclude  you." 

His  charity  was  as  wide  as  the  sky,  and  wher- 
ever there  was  human  suffering,  human  mis- 
fortune, the  sympathy  of  Whitman  bent  above 
it  as  the  firmament  bends  above  the  earth. 

He  was  built  on  a  broad  and  splendid  plan — 
ample,  without  appearing  to  have  limitations — 
passing  easily  for  a  brother  of  mountains  and 


LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE.  81 

seas  and  constellations  ;  caring  nothing  for  the 
little  maps  and  charts  with  which  timid  pilots 
hug  the  shore,  but  giving  himself  freely  with 
the  recklessness  of  genius  to  winds  and  waves 
and  tides  ;  caring  for  nothing  so  long  as  the 
stars  were  above  him.  He  walked  among  men, 
among  writers,  among  verbal  varnishers  and 
veneerers,  among  literary  milliners  and  tailors, 
with  the  unconscious  majesty  of  an  antique 
god. 

He  was  the  poet  of  that  divine  democracy 
which  gives  equal  rights  to  all  the  sons  and 
daughters  of  men.  He  uttered  the  great  Amer- 
ican voice  ;  uttered  a  song  worthy  of  the  great 
Republic.  No  man  has  ever  said  more  for  the 
rights  of  humanity,  more  in  favor  of  real  de- 
mocracy, of  real  justice.  He  neither  scorned 
nor  cringed  ;  was  neither  tyrant  nor  slave.  He 
asked  only  to  stand  the  equal  of  his  fellows 
beneath  the  great  flag  of  nature,  the  blue  and 
stars. 

He  was  the  poet  of  life.  It  was  a  joy  simply 
to  breathe.  He  loved  the  clouds ;  he  enjoyed 


82  LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE. 

the  breath  of  morning,  the  twilight,  the  wind, 
the  winding  streams.  He  loved  to  look  at  the 
sea  when  the  waves  burst  into  the  whitecaps 
of  joy.  He  loved  the  fields,  the  hills ;  he  was 
acquainted  with  the  trees,  with  birds,  with  all 
the  beautiful  objects  of  the  earth.  He  not  only 
saw  these  objects,  but  understood  their  mean- 
ing, and  he  used  them  that  he  might  exhibit 
his  heart  to  his  fellow-men. 

He  was  the  poet  of  Love.  He  was  not 
ashamed  of  that  divine  passion  that  has  built 
every  home;  that  divine  passion  that  has 
painted  every  picture  and  given  us  every  real 
work  of  art ;  that  divine  passion  that  has  made 
the  world  worth  living  in  and  has  given  some 
value  to  human  life. 

He  was  the  poet  of  the  natural,  and  taught 
men  not  to  be  ashamed  of  that  which  is  nat- 
ural. He  was  not  only  the  poet  of  democracy, 
not  only  the  poet  of  the  great  Republic,  but  he 
was  the  poet  of  the  human  race.  He  was  not 
confined  to  the  limits  of  this  country,  but  his 


LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE.  83 

sympathy  went  out  over  the  seas  to  all  the 
nations  of  the  earth. 

He  stretched  out  his  hands  and  felt  himself 
the  equal  of  all  kings  and  of  all  princes,  and 
the  brother  of  all  men,  no  matter  how  high,  no 
matter  how  low. 

He  has  uttered  more  supreme  words  than 
any  writer  of  our  century,  possibly  of  almost 
any  other.  He  was,  above  all  things,  a  man,  and 
above  genius,  above  all  the  snow-capped  peaks 
of  intelligence,  above  all  art,  rises  the  true  man. 

He  was  the  poet  of  Death.  He  accepted  all 
life  and  all  death,  and  he  justified  all.  He  had 
the  courage  to  meet  all,  and  was  great  enough 
and  splendid  enough  to  harmonize  all  and  to 
accept  all  there  is  as  a  divine  melody. 

You  know  better  than  I  what  his  life  has 
been,  but  let  me  say  one  thing  :  Knowing  as  he 
did,  what  others  can  know  and  what  they  can 
not,  he  accepted  and  absorbed  all  theories,  all 
creeds,  all  religions,  and  believed  in  none.  His 
philosophy  was  a  sky  that  embraced  all  clouds 
and  accounted  for  all  clouds.  He  had  a  philos- 


84  LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE. 

ophy  and  a  religion  of  his  own,  broader,  as  he  be- 
lieved— and  as  I  believe — than  others.  He  ac- 
cepted all,  he  understood  all,  and  he  was  above  all. 

He  was  absolutely  true  to  himself.  He  had 
frankness  and  courage,  and  he  was  as  candid 
as  light.  He  was  willing  that  all  the  sons  of 
men  should  be  absolutely  acquainted  with  his 
heart  and  brain.  He  had  nothing  to  conceal. 
Frank,  candid,  pure,  serene,  noble,  and  yet  for 
years  he  was  maligned  and  slandered,  simply 
because  he  had  the  candor  of  nature.  He  will 
be  understood  yet,  and  that  for  which  he  was 
condemned — his  frankness,  his  candor — will 
add  to  the  glory  and  greatness  of  his  fame. 

He  wrote  a  liturgy  for  mankind  ;  he  wrote  a 
great  and  splendid  psalm  of  life,  and  he  gave 
to  us  the  gospel  of  humanity — the  greatest 
gospel  that  can  be  preached. 

He  was  not  afraid  to  live  ;  not  afraid  to  die. 
For  many  years  he  and  Death  lived  near  neigh- 
bors. He  was  always  willing  and  ready  to 
meet  and  greet  this  king  called  Death,  and  for 
many  months  he  sat  in  the  deepening  twilight 


LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE.  85 

waiting  for    the    night;  waiting  for  the  light. 

He  never  lost  his  hope.  When  the  mists 
filled  the  valleys,  he  looked  upon  the  mountain 
tops,  and  when  the  mountains  in  darkness  dis- 
appeared, fixed  his  gaze  upon  the  stars. 

In  his  brain  were  the  blessed  memories  of 
the  day  and  in  his  heart  were  mingled  the 
dawn  and  dusk  of  life. 

He  was  not  afraid  ;  he  was  cheerful  every 
moment.  The  laughing  nymphs  of  day  did  not 
desert  him.  They  remained  that  they  might 
clasp  the  hands  and  greet  with  smiles  the 
veiled  and  silent  sisters  of  the  night.  And 
when  they  did  come,  Walt  Whitman  stretched 
his  hand  to  them.  On  one  side  were  the 
nymphs  of  day,  and  on  the  other  the  silent  sis- 
ters of  the  night,  and  so,  hand  in  hand,  between 
smiles  and  tears,  he  reached  his  journey's  end. 

From  the  frontier  of  life,  from  the  western 
wave-kissed  shore,  he  sent  us  messages  of  con- 
tent and  hope,  and  these  messages  seem  now 
like  strains  of  music  blown  by  the  "  Mystic 
Trumpeter  "  from  Death's  pale  realm. 


86  LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE. 

To-day  we  give  back  to  Mother  Nature,  to 
her  clasp  and  kiss,  one  of  the  bravest,  sweetest 
souls  that  ever  lived  in  human  clay. 

Charitable  as  the  air  and  generous  as  Nature, 
he  was  negligent  of  all  except  to  do  and  say 
what  he  believed  he  should  do  and  should  say. 

And  I  to-day  thank  him,  not  only  for  you 
but  for  myself,  for  all  the  brave  words  he  has 
uttered.  I  thank  him  for  all  the  great  and 
splendid  words  he  has  said  in  favor  of  liberty, 
in  favor  of  man  and  woman,  in  favor  of  moth- 
erhood, in  favor  of  fathers,  in  favor  of  children, 
and  I  thank  him  for  the  brave  words  that  he 
has  said  of  death. 

He  has  lived,  he  has  died,  and  death  is  less  ter- 
rible than  it  was  before.  Thousands  and  mill- 
ions will  walk  down  into  the  "  dark  valley  of  the 
shadow  "  holding  Walt  Whitman  by  the  hand. 
Long  after  we  are  dead  the  brave  words  he  has 
spoken  will  sound  like  trumpets  to  the  dying. 

And  so  I  lay  this  little  wreath  upon  this 
great  man's  tomb.  I  loved  him  living,  and  I 
love  him  still. 


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THE  BIBLE 


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Eleven  Chapters  on  the  Authenticity  of  the 
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pendix of  Unanswerable  Arguments  Against  the 
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of  the  Bible. 

Twenty-six  pages  of  Index,  enabling  the  reader 
to  refer  in  an  instant  to  any  Authority  quoted  or 
Argument  used. 

The  titles  of  the  chapters,  in  detail,  are:  Sacred  Books 
of  the  World,  The  Christian  Bible,  Formation  of  the  Can- 
oa,  Different  Versions  of  the  Bible,  Authorship  and  Dates, 
The  Pentateuch,  The  Prophets,  The  Hagiographa,  The 
Four  Gospels,  Acts,  Catholic  Epistles,  and  Revelation; 
Pauline  Epistles,  Textual  Errors,  Two  Cosmogonies  of 
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wit  and  point.  The  Text  is  in  chief  part  bj  George  E. 
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